


protect the flames from the wild winds

by ceserabeau



Series: into the fire [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the things you know about Primrose Everdeen. She is thirteen years old. She has blonde hair and big blue eyes. She is Katniss’ only sibling. She has been reaped – again. </p><p>The Quarter Quell goes a different way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	protect the flames from the wild winds

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bastille's _Icarus_. Johanna POV.

These are the things you know about Primrose Everdeen. She is thirteen years old. She has blonde hair and big blue eyes. She is Katniss’ only sibling. She has been reaped – again.

There’s a phone ringing somewhere, and your tributes are staring at you expectantly, but your eyes are glued to the screen. In District 12 the crowd is restless, pushing against the barricades as the boy is called: Vick Hawthorne, aged ten. On stage Haymitch looks like he’s going to puke, and next to him Katniss is ghostly pale, her hand clutching her sister’s shoulder like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“Jo,” Blight is saying, pressing the phone into your hands, “It’s for you.”

You go through the motions: lift it to your ear, say hello, but you’re still stuck on Katniss’ face, the horror etched there.

“Miss Mason,” a familiar voice says, cold as ice, and you nearly drop the phone; “I wonder if you now understand what is at stake.”

-

The trains run to the Capitol from all directions, criss-crossing the entire country. You’re lucky the one from Seven goes through Four: you find Finnick slumped against over a table in the bar car, a half-empty bottle of something potent and foul in front of him.

“Hey, 71,” he says when he sees you; you’ve never heard him sound so weary before. His tributes are twelve and nine: they might be Careers but they’re still babies. “Want a drink?”

Your footsteps echo in the carriage as you go to him, sit next to him. He puts his arm around you and this feels familiar: many nights have been spent like this, curled up, clinging to each other.

“What do we do now?” you ask, tucking your head into the curve of his neck.

He shrugs, jostling you. “We still have a rebellion,” he says. “Maybe more of one now. Haymitch thinks we’ll get more support because they’re all so young.”

You shake your head. “The Capitol just wants entertainment,” you remind him. “For them it’s just another tragic story. They’ll have forgotten about it in time for next year.”

“And the districts?” he asks, voice hard and angry. “You think they’re just going to let it go?”

“They’re not going to stand up to the Capitol.” You sigh, press your face into the soft fabric of his shirt. This close he smells like liquor and the ocean. “We’re screwed.”

There’s a long pause, then Finnick presses a tender kiss to the top of your head. “I guess you were right about it ending in tears,” he says.

You don’t say _I told you so_ but it’s a close thing.

-

The elevator doors open to Cinna, in black like always: this time, you know whose funeral he’s going to. There’s a sheaf of sketches tucked under his arm; he’s still Twelve’s stylist after all. He leans against the wall next to you, hooks his little finger into yours as the elevator begins to climb.

“She’s doing okay,” he murmurs.

You laugh but it’s sharp and harsh, cutting. The only time you’ve seen Katniss is on your TV screen: she does not look okay.

You pull away from him. “We did this,” you say, as if he doesn’t know, as if he can’t see the damage caused.

He turns to you and his eyes are angry, fury as bright as his eyeliner. “You can’t give up,” he says, too loud in the still silence of the elevator. “There’s still a rebellion here, Jo. This isn’t over yet.”

“Are you kidding me?” The rage is bubbling under your skin. You wish it was you in the Games; at least then you could act instead of react. “Kids, Cinna. _Babies_. They’re going to make them kill each other! We are _done_.”

He puts his hand on your face, too gentle; you want to turn to snap at his fingers. “This is why we’re fighting,” he says. “This is why we’re going to win.”

-

They’re showing the interviews with family and friends. The apartment is quiet, your tributes being made pretty and Blight gone off to plot with the others, so you sit on the couch and watch them, one by one, district by district, until they finally get to Twelve.

Gale Hawthorne is a familiar face. Katniss used to talk about him sometimes, a boy who was like a brother to her, a family which was like her own. You can see how hard it is for him to hold back his rage, the anger dug deep in every line of his face. Your heart breaks for him, for the both of them: little Vick Hawthorne is probably not going to make it out alive.

Then – Katniss’ turn. She’s somewhere in the Capitol, backlit by studios lights, Caesar Flickerman sitting opposite her. She looks calm and collected, but you know her: under all that bravado, she’s terrified.

“I know how hard this must be for you,” Caesar is saying. This year his hair is orange; it reminds you of flames. “It’s such a shame that you couldn’t volunteer again.”

Katniss manages to pull a sad expression onto her face. “I would have if I could,” she says, and Caesar coos.

“Such a tragedy,” he says, hand reaching out to squeeze her knee. “But you must be so proud. Your sister, carrying on your legacy.”

Katniss smiles, says, “I’m sure that Prim will be able to do what needs to be done,” but there’s a tiny tremor in her hands.

Caesar nods agreeably. “So you think she can win then?” he asks.

Katniss blinks at him as if from far away , her whole body gone tight with tension. The look in her eyes is manic. When she says _yes_ , her voice breaks over the word: so sad, so scared.

She’s cracking and the whole world can see it.

-

Haymitch finds you at the Parade, looking more sober than you’ve ever seen him. All the tributes are there, such tiny creatures; they all seem so fragile against the monstrosity of the Capitol. In the distance, a shock of dark hair next to blonde: Katniss, wrapped around Prim. She can’t even look at you.

“We’re going to do something about it,” Haymitch murmurs as he feeds one your ponies a sugar cube, stolen from Finnick no doubt.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you say. Even to your own ears your voice is cold.

You try to sidestep him but he catches your arm, pulls you back towards him, hard enough that there’ll be bruises later. Your tributes glance your way, but Haymitch just gives them his most charming smile and they look away again, too preoccupied with their own imminent deaths.

“This is not the time to play victim,” he snarls, low enough that no one else can hear. “I get enough of that from Katniss, and she actually has a good reason to act like one.”

“Let go,” you hiss, “Or I’ll break your wrist.”

You would, he knows that. It’s easy, just one hard push; it makes a sound like a branch breaking underfoot. Haymitch to his credit doesn’t let go; he’s used to your fury by now.

“We need everyone on our side, Jo.” His grip softens, his face too, and it’s all written there: how badly he wants this to succeed. “You were always the bravest of us. You’ve never been scared of them.”

It shocks a laugh from you. “Well I’m scared now,” you tell him, and it’s true, you feel it deep in your bones: a fear that makes your whole body tremble. “That’s what happens when you play with fire, Haymitch. You get _burnt_.”

The snarl is back, contorting his face. “You love her?” he demands, and his tone is furious. You can’t help but nod. “Then act like it. We need you. She needs you. It’s time to step up.”

Beyond the doors, the noise of the crowd rises to a deafening roar.

-

Your tributes are not going to win. There’s no question about it; they simply don’t have the strength or skill to do what it takes. They’re going to die and it’s going to be brutal and you’re going to have to watch.

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Finnick tells you over coffee. “I heard your girl has a good arm. If she gets a spear, or a knife –”

“She’s eleven,” you remind him. You slurp your drink; it burns your tongue, bright points of pain in your mouth. “I’ll be surprised if either of them survive the Cornucopia.”

Finnick sighs, scrubs a hand across his face. He looks exhausted, like he’s not sleeping; you know that feeling well. “We’re going to fix this,” he says, voice pitched low. “We’re going to stop them.”

You want to laugh at him, but there’s a lump in your throat, a sob clawing its way up to your mouth. Every time you close your eyes you see them: your tributes and Finnick’s and Haymitch’s and the rest, their baby faces and bodies, all the blood that’s about to spill from them. Your breath hiccups in your chest: you never used to cry, but these are desperate times.

“I guess we’re not placing bets on this one,” you mumble, and Finnick frowns, reaches out to knot your hands together, tan against light between your coffee cups.

“Not this time,” he says.

Across the room Blight waves at you: you should be helping your kids, teaching them, training them, but what’s the point? They’re just going to die anyway.

-

Day two and a fight breaks out in the Training Centre. The girl from One, a lanky girl of fourteen who has 5-1 odds and favours the throwing spears, jumps Primrose Everdeen, screaming about avenging her brother’s death. You watch the Peacekeepers separate them from the windows and wonder what the kid’s talking about.

Beetee appears at your elbow, fingers twisting a coil of fine wire into knots. “She’s Marvel’s sister,” he tells you and then you remember: a girl with dark skin and darker hair, the whoosh of an arrow let loose, a boy with brown hair and eyes the colour of the forest toppling to the ground. No wonder the girl’s got it out of Katniss’ sister.

“I hope you have a plan for getting her out of there,” you say, watching as the staff herd the tributes back to the stations. “She’s going to be the biggest target. They’re all going to want to take her down.”

Beetee glances at you out of the corner of his eye, assessing. “We’re working on it.”

Below the Careers head straight for the weapons, and you can see the way the others eye them warily: they know they’re the real threat. Your kids seen so small next to them, and Primrose Everdeen smaller still.

“Might want to hurry up,” you say.

The clock counting down the final hours ticks ominously in your ears.

-

The scores are out: your girl did well, your boy less so: it’s what you expected. Finnick’s boy has managed to get a 10; you think he’s going to be the one to keep an eye on.

The apartment is stifling; it feels like the air is being sucked out of your lungs. Blight is patting your kids on the back, but their faces are so pale, their eyes so wide: terrified. They know it’s only a matter of time.

You slip out, take unsteady steps towards the rooftop. It’s dark up here, the blackness of the night wrapping around you, no Capitol lights to shade your eyes from. You’re searching for some peace and quiet, some sort of sanctuary, but there’s already someone there: a girl with hair the colour of tree trunks and eyes as grey as the sky in a storm.

You try to back up, escape unnoticed, but she’s already heard you, is turning to look at you: “Johanna,” she whispers: it carries to you on the wind.

“Katniss,” you say, trying to keep your heartbeat calm. You haven’t seen her in weeks; she looks wretched. “What are you doing up here?”

She shrugs, says, “Nothing,” but her eyes are distant: Prim then, the hours they have left together. She glances at you again, suspicious now. “Did Haymitch send you?”

You shake your head, but she’s no longer looking at you. “I’m so sorry,” you say .

“Shut up.” Her eyes flick to the Capitol spread out below you: you wonder if she’s thinking about throwing herself down to meet it. “Go away, Jo.”

It hurts, more than any wound you’ve ever had: more than the time you broke your ankle falling from a tree, more than the time the tribute from Two put a knife into your shoulder. But you’ve always had a high tolerance for pain, so you step carefully towards her, reach out to touch her elbow with your fingertips.

“Finnick says they’re working on something. Are you –” You can’t quite get the words out; how do you ask if she’s still leading the rebellion that’s going to get her sister killed?

She knows what you mean: “No,” she snaps, and her voice is sharper than any axe you’ve ever thrown. “Snow’s won already. They need to let it go.”

She sounds so hopeless your heart aches. “Stop it,” you say, trying to put all the reassurance you can muster into your voice. “There’s going to be a way out. You just need to trust them.”

Katniss turns on you, her face aflame with anger, and she grabs you hard. Her hand fits around your bicep like it was made to be there, and it’s like your skin is on fire, like she’s burning a brand onto your skin.

“It’s over,” she says, right in your face, all broken heart and shattered soul. “Prim’s going to die.”

“She’s not,” you tell her: “She can win. She’s strong –”

“This is my fault,” she whispers, and your voice dies in your throat. “This is because I wouldn’t stop.” She looks up and her eyes are bright with unshed tears; your heart clenches so hard it feels like you’re dying. “You warned me, Jo. You were right.”

Oh, your Girl on Fire; they’re burnt her to ash. You’ve never hated yourself more.

-

Primrose Everdeen in a pale pink dress, hair in pigtails like the school girl she is. The others tributes pale in comparison, even the Careers. You catch a glimpse of Finnick shaking his head: no matter how much they’re dressed up, they’re still children, still babies.

All eyes are on Prim as she takes the stage, radiant under the spotlight. The screen cuts to Katniss in the audience, Haymitch’s arm looped around her shoulders: she’s crying silently but there’s a smile of her face. It seems she’s learnt to act after all.

Up on stage, Caesar leans forward in his chair. “Do you have a strategy, Prim?” he asks. “Maybe a bow like your sister?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Katniss could hunt, but I’m better at healing.” She smiles shyly. “I always wanted to be a doctor.”

The audience coos, wiping at their faces, crying tears for this life about to be cut short. It’s amazing to see, this tiny slip of a girl playing the room so well. You wonder who’s been teaching her to act like that.

They chit-chat a little longer, Caesar asking the same questions you’ve been hearing for years, the same ones he asked you long ago. You glance over at Katniss but her face is hidden behind her hand. She never looks at you.

Eventually the time comes for Vick Hawthorne’s five minutes of fame, and Caesar smiles at Prim, all teeth. “Do you have anything else you want to add before we say goodbye?” he asks.

“Just that I’m honoured to be here,” Prim says, her thin voice echoing around the room. “I hope that I can make my sister proud.”

The room erupts into applause, a standing ovation. People are crying, big ugly tears for this beautiful little girl, and you think that maybe Cinna was right: this is why you’re going to win.

-

“Any last advice?” your girl asks, hands clenched around silver cutlery at the dinner table.

“Stay calm,” Blight says.

“Don’t die,” you say.

Across the table your escort, some flighty Capitol thing in a frilly crimson shirt who you’ve detested for years, purses his lips. “Words of encouragement, Johanna,” he admonishes, all clipped consonants.

You wonder if his blood would be as red as his shirt.

“Please,” your girl says.

You look at her. Her back is ramrod straight and there are calluses on her hands from days of training. She has gained some muscle, but not enough. Beside her, your boy is trying to make himself as small as possible, eyes wide: a deer in the headlights. In a day, they will be ghosts, haunting you just like the rest.

Your only thought: _they are worth dying for_.

-

There’s a man in your chambers. His reputation precedes him: the only Gamemaker who has never called on a Victor for anything.

“How can I help you, Mr Heavensbee?” you ask.

If he’s surprised that you know his name, he doesn’t show it. “Good evening,” he says courteously, like he knows how close you are to slitting his throat. “How was your day, Miss Mason?”

He doesn’t say it the way Snow does, much calmer, much warmer. When you look at him his eyes are the colour of the sea: they make you want to trust him, memories of Finnick diving into an endless blue at the front of your mind.

“Could’ve been better,” you tell him.

Today’s the day. Your tributes walked away from you, backlit by the early morning sun, the roar of the hovercraft surrounding you; and you saluted them, three fingers in the air, and they’d smiled, something hopeful that made you want to puke. Hours from now, it will begin and there’ll be more blood on your hands than ever before.

You start to strip out of your dress. It’s a heavy thing, thick fabric made to look like bark that cuts at your skin, and it’s more freeing than you’ll ever admit to watch it fall to the floor.

Heavensbee doesn’t blink at your nudity: how very un-Capitol of him. But now that you look at him, he doesn’t seem like the average Gamemaker; there’s no strangely cut beard, no brightly coloured hair. He seems normal. He seems safe.

“I realise you’re new to the role, but Gamemakers aren’t allowed to have contact with tributes or their teams.” You fix him with your coldest stare, to see if he squirms. “You’re breaking all the rules by being here.”

He smiles, polite; he has the neatest teeth you’ve ever seen. “I’m planning on breaking a lot more,” he says, and his eyes glint in the light. “I’m here about Primrose Everdeen. I’m here about Katniss.”

You can’t help the way you stiffen at her name. “Then I think you’re in the wrong place.”

He lays a hand on your arm, right where Katniss touched you before, and you shudder against him, the feel of her still on your skin. “Miss Mason,” he says kindly, almost fatherly, “Come with me.”

He doesn’t take you far: one floor up, Woof and Cecelia’s apartment. When the door opens, there’s a host of familiar faces, all the Victors, or at least all the ones still alive. They watch you carefully, wary, as if they’re not sure who’s side you’re on.

“What is this?” you croak out.

Haymitch steps up, puts two heavy hands on your shoulders. “We have a plan,” he says. “We’re going to get them all out.”

You stare at him in disbelief. This is the Hunger Games: the only way you get out is in a body bag or with a crown on your head.

“Johanna,” Heavensbee says behind you, “We’re going to end it. It’s time to decide whether you’re in or out.”

Behind him, Finnick nods at you – then Beetee and Mags and Wiress, Cashmere, Gloss. Even Brutus and Enobaria, all those other Victors who have never had a kind word to say to you. They all stand united, waiting: for you.

“Are you with us?” Haymitch asks, reaching out a hand.

You take it.

-

Somewhere a clock is ticking down and you should be out amongst the crowds, trying to find your tributes some sponsors, but instead you’re here, knocking on the door of the District 12 apartment. You almost expect Haymitch to answer but when the door swings opens it’s her, Katniss Everdeen, and your heart skips a beat. She looks as terrified as you feel.

“We have a plan,” you say, and she collapses, mouth open on a shriek.

You try to help her but her hands are weapons, swinging at you, vicious and sharp. Blood is tacky on the line of your arm, the hollow of your collarbone. She’s screaming: _get out_ and _stop it_ and _this is all your fault_ ; when you get a grip on her and pull her close she howls, the most sorrowful sound you’ve ever heard.

You let her rage against you until she has nothing left to give, the anger ebbing into hiccupping sobs. The front of your shirt is wet with tears. You pet her hair, fingertips on the thick weave of her braid; you think of all the times you’ve untied it: what you wouldn’t give to have that back.

“We have a plan,” you tell her: “We have a plan.”

“Stop,” she whimpers into your chest, fingers digging thin gouges into your skin. “I don’t want to hear any more. It’s over. She’s gone.”

You get your hands around her face, jerk it up to face you. She looks as terrified as you feel. “Do you want to save Prim?” you ask, putting all your anger into it, all your hope. “Do you?”

Her brows twitch into a frown: “Of course.” She sounds surprised that you would even ask.

“Then get up. Come on, _get up_.” You lift her: she’s feather light, fading away, and you can’t let that happen, you won’t. “Come on, Girl on Fire. We’ve got work to do.”

It’s not over yet.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is apparently becoming a thing. At least two more to come.


End file.
